Desperate Times : TW Mix : When You're Young
by Ophelia Glace
Summary: full title: When You're Young You Can Promise Anything That You Want To. its a working title. Desperate Times part 2, The Lost Boys fic, makes little sense without part one.


Under the cover of high noon, she slipped down into the derelict hotel, through one of the cliff-caves which opened onto a less used area of the lobby.  She was certain they'd all be asleep, but it was better not to take chances; she was far too hung over to have it all out with David just then.  She was, apparently, also far too hung over to use this entrance, she soon found herself crawling on hands and knees, and eventual she simply tumbled the last yard or so down into the murky expanses of the high-roofed room.

She lay still, fuming at herself; she never drank, it was stupid, and wasteful, and uncouth, and what about Goddamned David was so crucial that the thought of fucking this up had her so deep in alcohol she couldn't see the sun?  She crawled along the floor, wondering, in bleared half-thoughts what she would do when she had to wake in only six hours.  She wondered, too, not for the first time that night, how he had found her out…

After what seemed like hours of dusty, dirty, garbage-inhibited belly-squirming she managed to haul herself onto the age-softened quilts covering the worn box-spring.  For a moment, she lay blissfully still.  Then she shrieked.  That odd, cold feeling, as if she had left a few of her chains on the bed, that cold feeling was stretched over every inch of her body, and moving.  She shot up and looked wildly around her.  She was up to her wrists in slick, shining, black bodies, which writhed and squirmed in and out among each other in masses and piles.  She shrieked again, and half-flung, half-dragged herself out of that bed, frantically brushing away masses of-

Flowers.  Long trails of wildflowers, and roses, tulips, and daisies, and lilies, woven together with strings of some white-flowering vine that she did not recognize.  There were pansies and marigolds and crocuses (where the hell did one find crocuses in California?  Weren't they cold weather blossoms?), and a dozen or more other blooms she didn't have the wherewithal to name.  Somewhere out there a large field and fifty or more gardens had been stripped bare.

He laughed at her, and she flushed with embarrassment at her dishevelment.

"You're a neurotic, do you know that David?"  But he just laughed.

In the space of time it would take most lovers to blink, he had crossed the room, and had his arm under hers.  She bit her lip at the absolutely pathetic gratitude that welled in her as he helped her back into a sitting position on the bed.  

"Anything worth doing is worth doing well.  It's a principle I usually apply to alcohol and feeding, but I've always felt it had the potential to be multi-faceted."

She groaned, and fell backwards into the heaps of flora; somehow, they were even more ominous now than when they had been snakes.  He produced one of the evenly shaped, pure-white cylinders Paul proudly called "poettes" and lit it, taking the first drag in manner that suggested procrastination.

"You'd have told me, eventually, of course."  It wasn't a question, it wasn't a statement, it was a string of accusative sarcasm that trailed away from his lips like spittle.  Silence and smoke hung about them, those intense blue eyes roamed for an instant, fixing on a patch of sunlight hung down in a far corner, he hung onto the hybrid brand as if it were the only stationary object in a spinning world; she closed her eyes against a world that almost was spinning, her throat was soar and rough, and being this near David was drawing her back from painfully sick into painfully drunk.

"Was it Thomas Evans, or did he go my way?"

"I passed it to Thom, as far as we know."

Another long silence passed, she lay agonized in her wreath of sweet-smelling colours; he crowned himself in the smoke of another cigarette.

"How many others were there?"

"At least two."  Why lie?  he'd only know, and hurt her with it, too, grind her lie down into every corner of her mind, fill her with that feeling of filth and crime, she put a hand over her mouth to stifle another moan.  "I think I'm only with you because you remind me of my mother."

He grimaced a grin into his smoke, "How Oedipal of you, but it's as stupid as it is amusing.  You're with me because I'm your miracle cure, right?"

He listened to the shuffle of flowers and thought, for a moment, that she had nodded, but there was too much noise.  He growled, wearily, and helped her away from her bed, holding that gorgeous hair back as she vomited on the floor of the den.


End file.
